


Three or Four Families in a Country Village

by DowagerLadyB



Category: HEYER Georgette - Works, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, The Corinthian - Georgette Heyer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-21 04:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30016011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DowagerLadyB/pseuds/DowagerLadyB
Summary: This story takes place in October 1813, after Chapter 34 of The Corinthian's Lady and before the Epilogue. I've been thinking about Lady Luttrell as a sort of middle-aged Grand Sophy or Emma Woodhouse, trying to manipulate the little world around her to make it work in the way she wants. And she's not the only one; you may find Mrs Daubenay reminds you of another lady of your acquaintance. There's nothing much to this, but I had fun with it.
Relationships: Penelope "Pen" Creed/Richard Wyndham
Comments: 21
Kudos: 11





	1. A Managing Female

It was a crisp October morning, and Lady Luttrell, driving herself through Queen Charlton in her dog cart to pay a visit, mused wryly that there must surely be a word in other languages - let us not say more civilised languages, but more precise languages, perhaps Hindoostani or Mandarin Chinese – for the odd, awkward relationship with Major and Mrs Daubenay into which she and Sir Jasper had been thrust willy-nilly by the marriage of their children: the Luttrells’ only son Piers and the Daubenays’ elder daughter Lydia.

The Major and Sir Jasper had been friendly enough once, and all had been harmonious for a while, but they had quarrelled over a piece of land that abutted both their properties, and which they had both wished to purchase; this dispute had perforce been settled now that the two families had been united by the Nuptial Tie. After much stiff, scrupulously polite and agonisingly slow negotiation – Lady Luttrell had had to stifle a strong desire to seize the two gentlemen by their hair, such as it was, and bang their heads together to make them see sense – the pair had agreed that Daubenay should be allowed to buy it, as his estate was much the smaller and he therefore stood in greater need. This had at least served to improve the Major’s temper somewhat (if it had done nothing for Sir Jasper’s), and Lady Luttrell hoped that this would make him more amenable to her mission now.

Lady Luttrell freely acknowledged herself to be a managing female, and set out to do all she could to make the little society of three or four families in a country village, in which she had for good or ill to carry on her existence, as easy, quiet and pleasant as it could be. This had been no simple task over the last few months, since there had been a most shocking murder - of a guest in her own house! - and hard upon it a great flurry of agitation over the very sudden marriage of young Piers and Lydia. Everybody was aware that they had scandalously eloped to Gretna Green, but of course nobody spoke of it, at least not quite within the hearing of their poor relatives. The Luttrells and Daubenays had had much to bear, but were so far fortunate that the runaway match was not long the sole topic for gossip, as the curious were soon distracted by other interesting events.

It could truly be said that nothing in the least out of the ordinary had happened in the village for the past age, and then several things all at once, rendering the elopement and even the murder quite old news; the village’s great house, Queen’s Manor, was to be occupied at last, after five years left sadly empty. That fact was interesting enough for a month’s speculation, but then Miss Creed, its inheritor, orphan heiress and daughter of the late owner, was also discovered to be lately wed, to a very fashionable and wealthy gentleman, the famous Sir Richard Wyndham.

This notable Corinthian was very widely renowned as a leader of the haut ton and friend of Brummell, as well as an eminent sportsman. Gentlemen might wish to behold his horseflesh, his way of handling a whip or his manner of tying a neck-cloth, according to taste; ladies were more interested in the fact that he was said to be one of the handsomest men in London, and one of the richest, and had been also until his marriage one of the most eligible and sought-after. This paragon had not after all singled out one of the great ladies of the polite world, who must surely have laid out lures for him, but had chosen one of their own.

It was thought to be a great credit to the village that one of its daughters should have caught the eye of such a nonpareil, although it was accepted as a fact, of course, that the women of Somerset were the most attractive in England. Those who recalled Miss Creed from her childhood among them could only laugh, and shake their heads, and say that they remembered her as the saddest romp and naughtiest tomboy that ever they had met, forever haring about the countryside on her fat little pony and getting into scrapes. It was a matter of the liveliest curiosity to see how she had changed, as surely she must have, now that she was a lady of fashion.

Lady Luttrell, it was known, had travelled to London to assist at the wedding of her god-daughter, though she could not be drawn to give very many details of it, other than to say that it had gone off very well, everybody in the Wyndham family most content with the match, the bride looking quite delightful, and the couple very much in love; this of course served rather to stimulate the general interest than to suppress it. The newlyweds had not long arrived in Somerset, after a summer spent, one heard, at the fashionable seaside resort of Brighton, and the countryside was all agog to catch a glimpse of them.

Her ladyship was very well pleased that topics that did not directly concern her had arisen, and thus that she should no longer be subject to quite so much vulgar curiosity, but her personality was a very active one, and she still had much to occupy her energies. There were currently, she felt, three impediments to the smooth flow of intercourse in her small social circle: Sir Jasper’s somewhat irascible personality (which, alas, a score and five years of marriage had taught her she could do little to remedy); the slight uneasiness that persisted between the young Luttrells and the new Lady Wyndham (which she was working on); and the extremely awkward circumstances of the previous encounters between the Major and Sir Richard. She herself had been witness to a very heated interview between the baronet and the military gentleman; the latter had been labouring under a misunderstanding, believing that his daughter had run off with Sir Richard’s young cousin, and, although the truth had been established and the boy found to be blameless, words had been spoken that could not easily be forgotten. Beau Wyndham, not four months married and entirely besotted with his bride, was of a mood to be magnanimous, and forgive; the Major must be induced to do the same. She would brook no opposition, this last obstacle must and would be removed, and she was here at the Daubenays’ house to do the thing.

It was a four-square residence on the edge of the village, not large but handsome enough in a plain style, constructed some forty years before in the local golden stone. The Major had inherited it from his extremely elderly maternal grandfather some two years previously. Prior to that, he had been an officer in the army, without very much in the way of private means, maintaining a fairly precarious, scrabbling sort of a life with his numerous family in whichever place he should be assigned. He had with relief retired and settled in Queen Charlton, and taken to running the small estate, and Lydia had met Piers, and here they were, and nothing to be done about it.

Lady Luttrell was shown to the parlour, and found her hostess nodding over her needlework; the Major was fetched in haste from some secret masculine lair to pay his respects, and they all three sat down together. The gentleman was stout, and inclined to a high colour when agitated, a state frequent in him, and the lady was plumply pleasant and sensible enough, only worn down by the vagaries of life in general, and life with her excitable spouse in particular, along with the cares attendant upon the birthing and rearing of seven children, three of whom had unhappily not survived to this present date.

After exchanging the usual pleasantries, and taking refreshment, their guest came to her point. “Major,” she said, “I will not beat about the bush. You will, I am sure, have heard that Sir Richard and Lady Wyndham have not long since taken up residence at Queen’s Manor for the autumn; our children have in my company paid a visit to them, and you must shortly encounter them yourselves. Indeed, although it is not of course my place to say it, you should probably in courtesy leave cards without loss of time.”

Mrs Daubenay’s pretty brow was furrowed. “Yes, indeed, ma’am, I am aware that we must do so, and I should not wish to be backward in any attention, only that Hector had such a dreadful time with Sir Richard in June, when all our affairs were so sadly disordered, and came close to arguing with him, and I am sure I could never make head nor tail of what it was all about!”

The Major was beginning to look alarmingly puce, and emitting small sputters, much like a kettle on the verge of boiling, and Lady Luttrell made haste to forestall any explosion. “Why, it was all a silly misunderstanding, caused by our ridiculous children. When your husband discovered that Lydia had been leaving the house at night in secret to meet Piers, Sir Richard’s young cousin Mr Brown was prevailed upon – by my son, I am sorry to say, for it was very wrong of him - to divert your wrath by pretending that HE, Brown, was the object of Lydia’s affections. The boy himself never had any designs on Lydia at all, and Sir Richard was entirely unaware of what was occurring until it was too late to explain and be believed. Admit it, Major – if you had gone to see Sir Richard in a fury and he had denied to your face that his cousin had ever met your daughter, when she had sworn so herself just a few short hours before, would you have believed him?”

The Major had been forced to concede that he would not; he would have considered the youth the lowest kind of scoundrel, a coward and a libertine in training, and his cousin just as bad or worse - some sort of pander of the most foul, licentious order - and must have felt himself obliged to call the Corinthian out, or something equally drastic and unpleasant, he knew not what.

Lady Luttrell was very pleased with the success of her gambit, and went on to say cunningly, “If you have forgiven Lydia and Piers for their deception, you must surely in common justice forgive the others, who were much the less guilty parties.”

Mrs Daubenay was much struck by this, and set herself to cajole her husband to accept a point well made, and after a great deal of huffing and puffing he was brought to admit that there might indeed be some truth in what her ladyship said.

“If you do not wish to call upon the Wyndhams – and I can see that there would still be some awkwardness in doing so in cold blood, as it were, and I am sure they would not expect it of you – I will engage myself to invite you all to take dinner with us one day, with a little company, and they shall be there too, and it will pass off more easily.”

The Major grumbled, but was persuaded that to be at outs with his fine new neighbour would make him look foolish - the type of irritable person who must fall to quarrelling with everyone he encountered - and, whatever he might think of the Beau’s capricious conduct, his young bride at least was surely entirely innocent in the matter. Mrs Daubenay was all afire to meet them both, and so did not hesitate to ally herself with Lady Luttrell, declaring it a very good notion, and one for which they must be grateful.

“In fact,” said her ladyship, embroidering her story, and running her tongue in a way quite unlike her, and which her husband would have been quite astonished to behold, “I must tell you that Sir Richard was quite distracted at the time all this nonsense was occurring. He had come calling at Crome Hall to see poor Mr Beverley Brandon, who was a friend of his, I believe, and met Miss Creed, and fell in love with her at first sight. I am sure you are aware that she is my god-daughter, and was most providentially visiting me at the time, and of course she is a very lively, engaging young lady. He was instantly possessed with an enormous admiration for her, you must know, and resolved that all his happiness depended on marrying her, and began straightway to woo her with great determination. I wish you might hear him speak of his feelings for her, ma’am, for I am sure you would find it most affecting. And so I daresay he was not attending to his mischievous young relative as much as he ought, though the fault of course was chiefly Piers’, for influencing the lad in such a mistaken fashion, and so I have told him.”

This most enjoyable gossip was a heady brew, calculated to appeal very much to Mrs Daubenay’s tastes. There was a natural human pleasure to be got from feeling herself intimate with exalted persons, and mentally rehearsing already the most excellent, condescending letters she could shortly write to share the gossip with her less favoured friends and relations. It might with justice be said that the correspondence of ladies was a kind of polite war, and Mrs Daubenay, after some years on the defensive, was now on the attack, and here was ammunition.

She had a female cousin who resided in Hertfordshire; she had married well, to a gentleman of property, but had long been an object of pity in her circle of acquaintance as the mother of five – five, was there ever anything so unfortunate! - daughters and no son, the property being entailed away in the most distressing fashion. It had been most enjoyable to pity the poor creature and her trials, but this lady had of late years rendered herself objectionable by in quick succession marrying off three of the wretched girls very creditably. Dear Lydia’s marriage – HER dear Lydia’s, not that frightful hoyden who shared her name - to Mr Piers Luttrell had gone some way to redressing the balance, for Piers would inherit a title one day, which was more than one could say of her cousin’s sons-in-law, ten thousand pounds or no ten thousand pounds. And yet Mrs Daubenay was by no means done, for she still had another daughter in the schoolroom to be thought of.

Miss Amelia was disconsolate at Lydia’s preferment, and liable to mope about the house, sighing heavily and making a nuisance of herself with her great glum face, and although that young lady was at present only fifteen, her fond mama knew well that there was no harm in having some care for the future. The Wyndhams were sure to entertain persons of rank and fortune at Queen’s Manor, and if the Daubenays could establish themselves on friendly terms with them, and be invited to the balls and ton parties they would no doubt hold over the coming seasons, there was no knowing what good might come of it. She knew for a fact, and what Lady Luttrell had just said had confirmed it, that the Corinthian was well acquainted with the other Honourable Mr Brandon – the one who was not dead – now an officer in a stylish cavalry regiment, not some low militia, and heir to his father’s title and, one presumed, vast ancestral acres, which were sure to put this Pemberley one heard so much of quite in the shade. To be throwing away such a prospect, and who knew what others, perhaps even better, through the Major’s foolish pride! It was not to be thought of, and so she would tell her husband when they could be private. How else, she would like to be told, was poor Amelia to advance herself, and that without even incurring the prohibitive expense of a London season, which they could by no means afford? All this went through Mrs Daubenay’s mind in a flash while she was maintaining a civil flow of conversation, and caused her to be quite unwontedly energetic in her support of Lady Luttrell’s scheme.

Under heavy artillery fire on both flanks, then, the Major could not resist, and was soon overborne, quite rolled up, and brought to agree to the dinner plans. Lady Luttrell left, very well satisfied with her success, promising to set a date and let them know it, and made haste to share the news with her god-daughter Penelope, the new Lady Wyndham.


	2. Do You Think It Will Answer?

Lady Luttrell found Pen and Sir Richard taking the air on the broad lawn beside their house; they had just set off to walk up into the woods behind, to seek the fine prospect of autumn colours to be had from the folly there, and she was persuaded to join them, as she was sensibly shod, and they provided her with a stout walking stick to match their own. 

Golden leaves swirling around them in a most picturesque manner, the small party proceeded quite slowly up the hill, in deference to Lady Luttrell’s advanced years (she would not see forty-five again) and Lady Wyndham’s delicate condition, although Pen did not look so very delicate now, stepping out strongly, her golden curls charmingly disordered by the breeze and her cheeks flushed with healthy colour.

Once they had achieved their destination, they caught their breath, admiring the fine view across rolling fields and bright woods, and sat down together on the bench which the late Mr Creed had so thoughtfully provided, and Lady Luttrell told them all that had occurred.

There was of course a greater difficulty beyond that of reconciling the Beau and the Major, and it was a puzzle indeed. The young Mr Brown, so falsely accused of dallying with Miss Daubenay, did not exist; he had been Pen herself, in masculine disguise.

Pen could not own herself particularly eager to be on visiting terms with the Major, but she recognised that the present uneasy situation could not continue. It was not agreeable to her to live forever on pins as she went about the county, in case the Daubenays should encounter her unexpectedly, and the Major recognise her face and her wretchedly memorable hair and become aware of her masquerade. 

The consequences of a sudden public revelation of her masculine deception were unpleasant to contemplate; she could probably weather them, as an heiress and the wife of one with an unassailable social position, but she would prefer to avoid gaining a spicy reputation if she could. Sir Richard might not care so very much - he would brazen it out, and carry it off with aplomb - but his family surely would, and for her part she would be sorry to put them to the blush, and undo all his sister Louisa’s hard work in spreading the fairy-tale version of her courtship and marriage. She had observed over the summer the mauling that Lady Caroline Lamb’s name had taken as a result of her irregular connection with Lord Byron, and she had no desire ever to be bracketed with her or her ilk as a subject for scurrilous gossip.

Even Lydia, no deep thinker, had apparently given it as her judgment, when applied to by her mother-in-law, that her father was decidedly not to be trusted with Pen’s secret, as it was a disclosure that his brain was not equipped to encompass. If he knew it, he would speak of it abroad; he must. It was necessary therefore that he be deceived.

Lady Luttrell had done a great deal in reconciling the Major to Sir Richard’s company, and now the harder part remained: that gentleman must meet her in her new identity of Lady Wyndham and remain in ignorance of ever having met her before; he must look on her face and her distinctive golden curls and never think for a second that he had seen them previously, nor – the hardest thing of all, in her estimation – that he had seen them in Sir Richard’s company. It was a difficult task and Pen contemplated it with trepidation. 

She said as much, and her companions turned to look at her appraisingly. Her husband said, “I do not say that you are wrong, my love, but I believe that we can pull it off. After all, Daubenay will be expecting to encounter a young married lady who is perfectly unknown to him, and if his imagination is inflexible, as we hear Lydia considers it, he will be very unlikely to think that such an entirely respectable person could possibly be a stripling he met briefly, months ago.”

“It is a pity my hair is still so short,” said Pen. “I feel that to be the chief stumbling-block in making him look on me quite differently. I know that a crop is very much the mode, but we cannot expect the horrid Major to know it.”

“Well, need he see that it is so short?” asked her godmother. “If you can contrive to dress it in such a way to conceal the length, I think that might go a long way towards pulling the wool over his eyes.”

“Yes,” said Sir Richard slowly, “if you could bring yourself to wear some kind of cap or turban, which as a married woman you very well might, the thing might be achieved. I do not mean you to look a quiz, Pen, you can be sure. We shall need to go to Bath, and see what can be found there in the first style of elegance.”

She accepted that this might answer, and added in sudden inspiration, “Earrings! Now I am glad I pierced my ears over the summer, for surely if I wear long earrings it will alter my appearance quite substantially. I have an emerald pair that my father bought my mother, and they might fit the purpose admirably.”

Both Lady Luttrell and Sir Richard were very ready to agree that this was an excellent idea. A shopping trip to Bath was soon undertaken, and a most elegant sort of cap affair in a richly patterned Indian fabric purchased from one of the fashionable milliners in Milsom Street. It by no means resembled the mode that Pen favoured in the normal way of things, and she eyed it dubiously, but Sir Richard was quite steadfast in maintaining that it became her greatly, and in no way made her take on the aspect of an elderly quiz or person attending a masquerade in fancy dress. 

The fateful day arrived, and Pen and her husband arrived for the party a little early, so that Lady Luttrell and Lydia might inspect her, reassure her, and make any necessary last-minute alterations to her appearance. Lady Luttrell had thought herself to be quite cunning in devising this stratagem; she felt sure that if Lydia and Pen could be brought to conspire together in this harmless trickery, they might become better friends, and thus Piers’ life would be made happier, and everybody would benefit.

So Sir Richard sat downstairs, making such conversation as his excellent address might suggest to him with Piers and Sir Jasper, and their female guest, a young friend of Lady Luttrell's who resided in Bath, and was staying at Crome Hall for a few days. For her part, Pen stood in Lady Luttrell’s bedchamber, anxiously regarding her companions. “Do you think it will answer?” she asked them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should say that the comment about Lady Luttrell's advanced years is a *joke*; I am considerably older, as befits my Dowager energy.


	3. The Dinner Party

Pen had chosen for the occasion one of her newest gowns, in a soft moss-green velvet, embroidered at bodice and hem with gold thread in an artful design. It had tiny puff sleeves, and was cut quite low, in the current London mode. If the Major should penetrate the deception, he would at any rate be left in no doubt that his earlier acquaintance must have been a girl in disguise as a boy, for no-one seeing Pen in such a gown now could imagine for a second that she was a boy disguised as a woman. Looking at herself in the long pier glass in her dressing-room, Pen had supposed rather doubtfully that this must be a blessing of some kind.

When she had presented herself to Sir Richard, seeking reassurance, he had held her at arms' length for a moment, contemplating her appreciatively, smiling warmly, then drawn her close. "Excessively becoming!" he had murmured, his grey eyes glinting. "The colour, of course, but also the texture of the velvet, inviting, almost begging one to stroke it..." He had kissed her, butterfly kisses, on the lips and on her bare neck and shoulders, and made yet further gratifying demonstrations of his approbation, making her wish that they could cry off the dinner party, and stay at home. She could not doubt his sincerity, as he held her close; his admiration was quite evident, and of a nature that could scarcely be feigned. She was quite secure, then, in her knowledge that the gown suited her; but would it serve to fool the Major?

She wore her new cap, and her mother’s long emerald earrings, and both Lady Luttrell and Lydia could be quite honest in telling her that she looked quite splendid. The rich green gown set off her fair colouring to perfection, and against it her eyes showed very brightly blue, and the headpiece entirely concealed the shortness of her crop, as any observer unacquainted with her would assume that her tresses must be piled up under it. This had the effect of making her seem a little older than she was; not in the normal way of things something to be sought out by any lady, but, as she was only seventeen still, she could bear it. The earrings served to emphasise the long, graceful line of her neck, which was without any other adornment. A captious critic might argue Pen a little overdressed for a quiet country dinner, but she was after all making no boastful show of jewels, such as might be censured, and to array oneself in one’s finest raiment could be counted a thoughtful compliment to one’s hostess, and so it could surely be allowed to pass.

Lydia said naively, “I think that cap is very fine; I had not previously considered such a thing, but I like it extremely, and wonder if a similar one might become me also!” Pen thought this the sincerest compliment she could be paid, and said so, and she and Lydia were now in charity with each other, as Pen was quite truthfully able in her turn to admire Lydia’s new gown of deep rose pink, which sat admirably with her wedding pearls and set off her rich brown hair and fine eyes to great effect. 

The three ladies were therefore all very pleased, and descended the stairs together to face the company now assembling below. The Daubenay party had just arrived and had been removing their outer garments and handing them to the waiting servants; the movement of the ladies on the staircase caught their eyes, and they looked up.

It could not be said that - after all the anxious anticipation of this moment - Pen’s appearance produced a particularly startling effect on the Major. This distinction was reserved for his eldest son, the youthful Cornet Daubenay, home on furlough from his current post defending (with others) the south coast from invasion, and invited as a courtesy to his parents. He had been speaking, but as he set eyes on Pen, her sparkling eyes, dimpled cheeks and creamy bare shoulders, he broke off in some confusion of tangled phrases, his mouth hanging open. “By Jove!” he was heard to utter fervently at last. His mother tutted in exasperation and ushered him forward, to greet his hostess. The party passed together into the drawing room, and introductions were made of those persons not previously acquainted with each other. 

The Major bowed a little stiffly to Sir Richard, a salute returned with easy grace, and no reference was made by either to their previous unfortunate encounters; Daubenay bent over Pen’s hand, and pronounced himself pleased to meet her. He was obliged to congratulate Sir Richard upon his recent marriage, as to congratulate Pen might have implied that Sir Richard were the prize and not she, and he did so, Sir Richard smiling and thanking him with perfect composure, although one who knew him well might have observed a certain twitch of his finely moulded lips, betokening private amusement, and his wife and Lady Luttrell found themselves both obliged to avoid his eye for some little time.

All the while the Cornet was gazing at Pen in frank and very obvious admiration, blushing and stammering his pleasure when he was introduced to her. He would very much have liked, clearly, to squire her in to dinner, but much to his chagrin that pleasure was denied him, as by order of precedence that honour fell to Sir Jasper, and she was to sit at his right hand. 

Lady Luttrell had not been so very satisfied with the placement of guests at her table, as the order by which they must be set was clear enough, and there was no avoiding placing family members by each other, no matter how she tried; Lydia sat between her husband and her father, while Mrs Daubenay had her son on her right, with at least the consolation of Sir Richard on her left, which must surely please the lady, if not the gentleman quite so much. It would have suited the hostess better to have Sir Richard seated next her friend Miss Abigail Wendover, as that lady had informed her before the other guests’ arrival that she had met him many years previously, and was acquainted with his family, but it could not be contrived, as she must be seated by Sir Jasper, opposite Pen. Miss Wendover was an umarried lady in her middle twenties, of distinction, refinement and good family, and was owed a place of honour, and besides that Sir Jasper liked her very much, finding her amusing, while he considered most of the rest of the party to be bird-witted females, by which he meant his daughter-in-law and her mother, and would by no means consent to have them seated by him. He was fond of Pen, whose father had been his close contemporary and friend from boyhood, and he had found her enjoyable company since her return to Queen Charlton, so he did not mean to object to her being at his side at dinner, which, his wife thought waspishly, was just as well.

The meal went on pleasantly enough, the repast being an elegant one, as all agreed, and the wine plentiful. Mrs Daubenay had found herself seated by Sir Richard with mixed emotions; on the one hand, she would be able to write in triumph and tell all the world of it, but on the other hand, she would actually be obliged to converse with him, and think of things to say. This task was made no easier by the fact that he was, she thought, easily the best-looking gentleman she had ever beheld in all the forty years of her existence, so very attractive, in fact, that it threatened to quite deprive her of the power of speech.

It was an unspoken convention of society that any lady or gentleman – particularly one fortunate enough to possess a substantial inheritance - who was more or less sound in wind and limb, and whose features had arranged themselves with anything approximating to symmetry, without such defects as an enormous beak of a nose, say, or great irregular lumps about the head and face, would be described as good-looking. A very prepossessing gentleman, one might say, or a fine young lady, or a handsome duke or prince. When Mrs Daubenay had heard Sir Richard – a baronet, a leader of fashion and a very wealthy man – described as handsome, she must, she realised now, have assumed that he was handsome by the extremely low standards of the world, which would only go so far as to insist that a gentleman should not by his appearance frighten anyone who happened to come across him unexpectedly, or cause ordinary, robust children to run away in tears crying for their mama. Real beauty of face and person was a much rarer thing, scarcely to be met with, and one certainly did not expect to encounter it across the dinner table. It was all very well for Lady Luttrell, she considered bitterly, who one must suppose by now to be accustomed to the sight of him, but she should have been warned, so that she might prepare herself, though she had no idea how. He was excessively elegant, of course, but it was not that. He was tall, broad-chested, with fine shoulders, and, so far as she could see without vulgar peering, long-limbed and well built, but it was not that either. He had quite lovely hair, she noticed, very shiny: a soft honey-brown, styled in artful disorder, a few locks falling across his noble brow. His profile was that of a Greek statue; she recalled seeing one as a girl, in an otherwise very dull museum or other, of a young classical gentleman named Antinous, or something of that sort, and she was reminded of him now. Like the marble youth of antiquity, his nose was perfectly straight, his cheekbones unfairly well defined, and his lips… She would not look at his lips. Any more. 

And then he turned to her and smiled as he addressed her, and it was only the strictest self-control that prevented her from whimpering, or she very much hoped it did; she could not be entirely sure. Luckily, Sir Richard was famed for his address, and perhaps used to the effect he had on susceptible persons, and so he was very soon drawing her out to converse in a skilful way, which made her feel fascinating and sophisticated, so that she would later be able to tell her correspondents that while anyone intimately acquainted with him (as she was) must acknowledge that the Beau was very handsome, with an especially agreeable smile, it was his manners in refined company (such as her own) that were so particularly pleasing, not in the least high, or disagreeably proud or disdainful, as she understood some other gentlemen, less truly deserving of that name, set themselves up to be.

Conversation was flowing just about as freely as could be expected in such a mixed company, Lady Luttrell noted. She herself was entertaining the Major, as Piers and Lydia were inevitably whispering together, and Mrs Daubenay was plainly in transports of delight in Sir Richard’s company, and who should blame her? Pen was telling some tale – perhaps, she thought, a recollection of her late father and his eccentricities - that made Sir Jasper laugh, and choke a little on his wine, though poor Abigail Wendover, despite her perfect manners, could make very little headway with the Cornet, a sadly ill-conditioned youth, who preferred to stare at Pen across the table like the veriest mooncalf, and had very little to say for himself to either of his neighbours on any topic. His hostess was aware of it, and was sorry indeed to have subjected her friend to such an ordeal. 

She was therefore sufficiently glad to signal that the ladies should withdraw just as soon as she was able, leaving the gentlemen to shift for themselves in their somewhat awkward party: two fathers and their sons, one of them Piers and the other a perfect ninny of a Cornet, and a distinguished gentleman of fashion quite unrelated to either family and likely to be heartily bored; she wished them joy of it. She did not suppose that they would linger for very long over their port. In their place, she would most assuredly not.

The ladies, in the drawing-room, formed a much more agreeable group. Lydia was happy to play for them on the pianoforte, Pen hastily disclaiming any aptitude at all for music, and Mrs Daubenay was most surprised and gratified to find her dear daughter the more accomplished young lady; she had not thought it could be so, and would be sure to include it in her letter to her cousin, which bad fair by now to be the length of a young novel. She was very content to sit and listen to Lydia’s piano sonata, or whatever it was, with half an ear, while she found herself in the elegant company of Lady Wyndham and Miss Wendover, who had each already identified a certain spark of wit and quick understanding in the other. Miss Wendover had asked Pen how she had liked her summer in Brighton, and at her urging the younger lady was describing her visit to the Marine Pavilion, and her meeting with the Regent; she had a very expressive, droll face, a clever turn of phrase, and a gift for vividly painting a scene, so that one felt as if one were actually there. Mrs Daubenay could scarcely have been happier if she had met the Regent herself, and he had kissed her hand and complimented her on her gown, since she had all the pleasure and none of the anxiety of such exalted social intercourse. Lady Luttrell was quite content after all her labour to sit back and listen and be satisfied that there was nothing to put her to the blush here, and Abigail was now at least being tolerably entertained.

The gentlemen, as she had predicted, joined them in very short order, and Sir Richard was at last able to make his way to Miss Wendover’s side, as courtesy demanded. They had spoken for a brief moment when he had arrived at Crome Hall, but there had barely been time then for them to greet each other as old acquaintances, and for her to congratulate him on his recent marriage. Now he could engage her in conversation regarding her sister Mary Brede, and those other members of her eminent family with whom he was acquainted. She in her turn enquired civilly after Lord and Lady Trevor, and wished to be remembered to them. She was just a few years younger than the Corinthian, and both recalled their dancing together on her come-out.

Lady Luttrell had scarce had time to congratulate herself on the ideal social conditions which it seemed she had created, when the Major, who had seated himself near Pen on a sofa, was heard to say rather hesitantly, and with clumsy gallantry, “I must say, Lady Wyndham, I have been trying to recall where we might have met before, for I find your face familiar, and wonder where I could possibly have had the pleasure of beholding it before!”


	4. A Ghost of a Wink

It seemed as though the company froze for a moment, while those privy to Pen’s secret – which was everyone present except Miss Wendover, the Major himself, and his wife and son – were possessed by blind panic. They all considered rushing into speech, if only they could think what in heaven’s name they should say.

Salvation came from the most unexpected quarter possible. “I do not wonder at it, Daubenay,” said Sir Jasper comfortably, and took snuff. “The cause of your impression of familiarity is, no doubt, the time you spent in Queen Charlton visiting your grandfather when you were but a youth, as was I, and my good friend Harry Creed just a little older. I am sure Lady Wyndham will not object to my saying that she resembles her late father to an extraordinary degree – why, every time I see your curls and those blue eyes of yours, my dear, I am reminded of him, especially as he was in boyhood. It would not in the normal run of things be considered a gallant thing to say to a young lady, but I am sure you will not mind it, as he was generally acknowledged to be a very well-looking fellow.”

“Certainly I do not mind it, Sir Jasper,” said Pen fervently. “I am always excessively pleased when anyone says that I resemble him. I take it as a compliment, in fact.”

Sir Jasper smiled at her benevolently, and gave a courteous little bow. “And so it was intended.” He continued reminiscently, “Ladies, I should be sorry to tell you how sadly wild we were – I am sure you would scarcely credit it.”

His son was looking quite astonished, but his wife was regarding him in fascination, a little smile hovering about her lips as he went on, “I well recall one particular occasion when we three jolly lads made up a party to see Big Ben Bryan fight Jack Clayton of Kingswood. What a mill that was, the first I ever saw, and what a night followed it! I do not suppose you were much about fifteen or sixteen years of age, Daubenay, but I am sure you must recollect it, and the festivities at the inn afterwards. Or perhaps you do not, as it now strikes me that you were a little unwell later in the evening, for some cause or another…?”

Sir Jasper turned his face a little, and Sir Richard could have sworn that he winked at him, though the impression was fleeting, and gone in an instant. He felt it was the moment for him to aid his host in his efforts, and said easily, “This is perhaps not the time to speak of it, sir, and I am sure that the ladies would be glad if we turned the subject, but I would one day much enjoy your recollections of Bryan; I have of course heard great things of him, but I was sadly not of an age ever to see him fight, as I was a mere boy when he retired from the ring.”

“It would be my pleasure, Wyndham. I know you to be an aficionado of the noble art, and I am very happy to talk of it at any time. I am sure that Major Daubenay, too, would be glad to join us and share his impressions of that day.”

The Major’s face was quite suffused with colour, more than one would think the mere mention of an event near forty years ago ago warranted, so that it must be imagined that there was some extremely disreputable tale associated with it, which he was very much afraid would become the subject of general discussion. He made no very coherent answer, and seemed very happy to let the subject be changed by Lady Luttrell to one of general interest, which would be more acceptable to the ladies present.

She by degrees made her way to her husband’s side, and as the conversation ran on, ably managed by the Wyndhams and Miss Wendover, she said softly, “After five and twenty years of marriage you can still surprise me, sir. Will you be so good as to tell me later exactly what happened on that memorable occasion?”

He huffed out a laugh. “I must consider if it is appropriate for your ears!”

She smiled. “It must be bad indeed. Poor Major Daubenay, he was quite mortified, was he not? I think you have cut him off magnificently, and we need have no further apprehension of his threatening to destroy Pen’s peace, or her reputation, now that he is more concerned for his own. Thank you!”

“I am only too happy to assist you. Look at his great gaby of a son – he is just precisely what his father was at that age, and I cannot imagine he holds his wine any better. Can we be rid of them soon, do you think, Honoria? For I am sure that some of them have delighted us enough.”

Indeed it was time for the party to be breaking up, and Sir Richard and Pen very shortly took their leave, in a flurry of cordial farewells, thanking their hosts for a perfectly lovely evening, with a very speaking look of gratitude from Pen as she said it. The Daubenays followed close on their heels, Piers and Lydia went up to bed, and Sir Jasper stumped off to say goodnight to his dogs, one of whom was in an interesting condition and likely to pup at any moment; indeed, it was fortunate she had not chosen to do so during the dinner, for Sir Jasper would have been sorely tempted unceremoniously to abandon his guests for this far more important event.

This left Lady Luttrell and her guest to slip off their shoes and make themselves comfortable in her sitting-room, with a last glass of wine to sip before they retired. They might be considered an odd pair, with such a disparity of age between them, but their mothers had been bosom bows, regarding each other in the light of sisters and maintaining the friendship all their lives, and the great gap in age between the two ladies was explained by Lady Luttrell being her mother’s oldest child, and Miss Abigail her mother’s youngest. 

Miss Wendover laughed now and waved a hand dismissively when her hostess apologised for the Cornet’s sad want of address. “I do not regard it, Honoria; I would find it more unpleasant to be the object of the kind of puppyish admiration he showed for Lady Wyndham. To be ignored by such a foolish creature, even in regimentals, must always be preferable to me, though I am sure I would have been mortally wounded by it at seventeen, and cried myself to sleep. But I liked Sir Richard’s bride very much, and am glad to know her; she is quite out of the common way. I would generally consider her very young to be married, and to a gentleman so many years her senior, and so I suppose she is, but I think them very well matched, and so will generously make an exception for them.”

“Yes,” said Lady Luttrell thoughtfully. “I said as much to Lady Trevor, when I encountered her before their wedding. They do seem to be well suited, and very happy, which is just as well, for I must tell you that she is expecting to present him with a petit pacquet in the spring.”

“Goodness,” said Abigail drily. “With absolutely no loss of time, I collect: from the schoolroom to motherhood within a year. How gratifying for the Wyndhams, and how disagreeable for Miss Brandon, when she should come to hear of it. I must write my sister Mary directly!” Miss Wendover’s sister was a neighbour of the Brandons in Brook Street, and so Abigail was very well acquainted with all the gossip that had swirled around them in the past months; she had encountered them at various social occasions upon her regular visits to London, and plainly held no high opinion of the eldest daughter of that noble family. The two ladies settled down for a very comfortable gossip, and perhaps another glass of wine, and Sir Jasper might spend just as long as he liked in the kennels, and never be missed.

Meanwhile Pen and Sir Richard had settled into their carriage for the short journey back to Queen’s Manor with a great deal of relief. “Sir Jasper was quite wonderful!” said Pen. “It seemed to me that he had the Major so confused with all his talk of my resemblance to my father that we can be quite secure now. Do you think he did it on purpose, Richard? I find it hard to tell with him; he affects such an air of bluff unconcern that it is hard sometimes to see what he is about.”

“Most definitely it was done on purpose!” replied her husband. “I observed that he winked discreetly at me as he spoke. He was evidently enjoying himself enormously. He is very fond of you, I believe, and was happy to be able to be of assistance, and perhaps also to settle some old score with Daubenay without appearing to do so. I consider him to be uncommonly shrewd, for all he hides it so well beneath his John Bull exterior. He is certainly much cleverer than the poor Major.”

“Do you think he will tell you what exactly the Major did that evening that embarrassed him so? I confess I would love to know it.”

“Some things are better forgotten, I am sure, if one is to look one’s neighbours in the face with any composure,” said Sir Richard. “And it is decided that we shall be friends with the Daubenays now, which I am sure will delight the Cornet, at least, as he could not take his eyes off you for so much as a second.”

She chuckled. “Was it not ridiculous? He quite put me to the blush.”

“His taste, at any rate, I cannot fault, if his manner of expressing it lacked something of subtlety.”

“Poor boy!”

“Poor boy, indeed. He admired you so very much that he was quite unable even to sustain a conversation, and, were he to find himself alone in a carriage at night with you like this, I am sure he would not have the first idea how to conduct himself.”

He could tell from her voice that she was smiling as she moved a little closer to him in the darkness and said, “Whereas you, sir…?”

"You shall be the best judge of that, my love..."

The next few moments were breathless and near-silent, the only tiny sounds to be heard the soft whisper of kisses, the susurration of skin over velvet, and silk riding up over skin, and skin brushing across sensitive skin, and then a giggle that transformed into a small involuntary gasp of pleasure.

"Well, brat?" he murmured between kisses. 

Pen sighed, “Oh, Richard, I suppose we could not tell them to drive to Bristol and back? Quite slowly?”


End file.
